


Hold Your Own

by Anonymous



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Breathplay, Choking, Clothed Sex, Dry Humping, Grinding, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:55:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28608654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It's an accident, until it's not.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 8
Kudos: 85
Collections: Bandom Kink Meme





	Hold Your Own

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [bandomkinkmeme](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/bandomkinkmeme) collection. 



> _**Prompt:** Breathplay.  
> Maybe one has trouble asking for it, or it happens once accidentally but they both find they're really, really into it. Escalating and pushing the limits of this kink together either over one or several scenes._
> 
> This seemed like it would be a really fun prompt to try. It's not terribly long or anything, but I hope you enjoy these two idiots trying to figure out wtf they're doing. Disclaimer: please don't use this as a guide for how to choke your partner out lmao. Do your research!  
>  This is written in one sitting, and obviously not beta'd for Anonymity Reasons, so please excuse any typos. To the prompter: hope you enjoy. XOXO ~~gossip girl~~

It starts off like any other day.

Frank won’t get off of Gerard, which can be kinda nice sometimes but at the moment it’s really fucking annoying. All Gerard wants is five fucking moments of peace, Jesus Christ, it’s why he came here to hang backstage instead of going out into the city with Ray and his map of the sites, the perennial dad, enticing Mikey to follow him with the promise of coffee -- nice coffee from a shop, not just from the machine on the bus. 

So Gerard had been _trying_ to read this new graphic novel he picked up in New York a few weeks ago. It was still pretty early in the day, so not even many roadies were around, and it was quiet, which was perfect. Until Frank strolled in the door, chewing on his lip ring, and decided to sit next to Gerard and ask him five million questions. 

“Are you pissed at me or something?” Frank’s asking now. He must be tapping his toes inside his shoes; the whole couch is vibrating. 

“Yeah, kind of,” Gerard answers honestly. They can hear their own voice pitching into that pinched tone it took on sometimes when they got in a bad mood. 

“God.” Frank rolls his eyes. “You gotta just _tell_ me when I’m pissing you off, don’t get all passive-aggressive and bitchy with me.” And he shoves Gerard. 

It’s really, really obvious that he’s looking for a fight, but Gerard is just uncaffeinated enough to indulge him, as stupid as it sounds. Usually all they do is shove each other on the couch, pushing against one another until they get tired; maybe one of them will jab the other in the side. Today, though, Gerard puts his book carefully on the table before grabbing Frank by the shoulders and wrestling him down to the questionable upholstery. 

They’re usually pretty evenly matched in terms of strength, but the element of surprise gives Gerard the upper hand, and he fully uses it, keeping his hands firm on Frank’s chest and crawling over his legs to perch atop him. Now that he has him pinned down and prone, by all accounts not resisting, Gerard wants to make some kind of winner’s speech, or at the very least crow over his victory a little. Then that sneaky fucker twists his body like a snake and Gerard yelps and loses his balance. 

Gerard is _not_ going to die cracking his head open on a tacky glass coffee table in a venue in Milwaukee. So he flails his arms desperately in front of him to try and change the trajectory at which he’s falling, except he kind of makes an unexpected landing. Namely, his forearm collides with Frank’s throat -- not from a dangerous distance, but still -- and he instinctively uses it to push himself up before he realizes what he’s done. 

“Oh my God, Frankie, I’m so sorry, oh my God,” Gerard says instinctively, leaning a little closer to try and assess the damage. Frank’s red in the face and wheezing, which seems perfectly natural, but then Gerard’s leg hits just the right place and sinks into the couch and suddenly, he can feel that Frank is getting hard inside his jeans, so fast he must be getting a fucking head rush. 

“Oh,” Gerard says dumbly. “Am I -- should I not be sorry?” 

“No,” Frank manages, wrangling his hand out from where it was trapped under Gerard and massaging his throat. “No, shithead, you should be, you just, like, super-suplexed me. Just because it fucking… turned me on doesn’t mean that doesn’t count anymore.” 

“But…” Gerard trails off. His hand is still on Frank’s chest, right over his heart, and he moves it tentatively back up to Frank’s neck, where the skin is still flushed and angry red. _Pretty_ , Gerard’s brain supplies. 

It’s not the first time they’ve hooked up but it’s the first time they’ve both been stone-cold sober. And it’s definitely the first time something like this has happened. They’re both thinking it; it’s clear as they sit there, electricity practically crackling in the air between them, frozen in time for a second. 

“Tell me if you don’t want it,” Gerard says quietly, “and I’ll stop.” 

Frank looks up from under him, eyes the size of planets, so perfectly still. It’s only when Gerard wraps his hand around his neck, not even applying any pressure yet, that Frank says, “God,” then, “of course I fucking want it, do you feel how hard I am?” and bucks his hips up. This time he’s clearly not trying to throw Gerard off. 

Taking a deep breath, like he’s the one who’s gonna need it, Gerard squeezes. Just their fingertips, and not hard, because they don’t actually want to make Frank pass out or something. But the effect is immediate. Frank’s head lolls back and he groans, his vocal cords vibrating under Gerard’s palm, which feels so strange. “Fuck,” he swears. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes, fuck, yeah, you can do it harder,” Frank urges. His eyes slip closed and one of his hands flutters up to rest on Gerard’s thigh. It’s that touch, more than anything, that fills Gerard from his toes upwards with delicious heat and makes him realize that he’s half-hard already. 

Made a little bit more confident by the response, although still feeling out of his depth, Gerard presses harder, tighter, and Frank lets out an honest-to-god whine and his hips jerk again. Gerard presses down instinctively and is met with a sharp intake of breath, shallow and amplified thanks to the restricted availability of air. The friction feels good to the point of distraction, their jeans pressing together and pulling the crotch of Gerard’s pants tight around his cock. He wants to touch himself, to touch _Frank_ , but he can’t without losing his anchor point, his other hand planted on the couch keeping his whole body weight off of Frank’s neck. (Maybe Frank had liked it before, but Gerard isn’t going to answer for him losing his voice yet again.) 

A problem like this takes too much brainpower to solve when what feels like 90% of his blood is in his dick, so Gerard throws it out the window when Frank rolls upwards again. Instead, they resituate themselves until their legs are locked with Frank’s, with one of his thighs between and vice versa, and then the grinding potential gets so, so much easier. Frank’s pink belt is kind of cold and cuts into Gerard’s belly, but the tiny bit of give at his hip is the perfect surface, and Gerard moans in relief as he presses fully into it. He’s really glad he actually wore underwear today, because they’re the only buffer between his cock and two layers of denim. 

Frank’s movements are less grinding and more instinctual, jerky thrusts, no rhyme or rhythm to them. His eyes are half-open, but he’s not really looking at anything; his hair is just starting to stick to his skin, flat with sweat, at its very edges. He looks fucking gorgeous, and Gerard can’t, won’t get over it, maybe ever. Even Gerard’s pale hand over Frank’s stubbly tattooed neck is hot to the point of obsession. The scorpion tail is peeking out over his pointer finger, like it’s getting ready to sting, and Gerard’s tempted to push even harder just to spite it. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Gerard,” Frank is mumbling, still writhing under him, his head so far back that Gerard sees more of the underside of his jaw than his face. His voice is tight and he’s a little red in the face, but he sounds blissed out, almost high. “Feels so fucking good, you gotta try, holy fuck, I’m gonna come.” He’s babbling, the hand he was using to hold Gerard in place slipping up and under Gerard’s jacket and t-shirt. They’re both still fully clothed. “Fucking, make me come.” 

“Yeah?” Gerard breathes. It’s dizzying, Frank at his hand like this, twisting and turning like he’s possessed, but held perfectly still at the point where they connect. He’s pretty sure he knows what will send Frank over the edge: he angles his hips to the side so their clothed cocks drag against each other, and squeezes tight, just for a few seconds. 

It works. Frank lets out a strangled, strained noise that rushes through his throat, and jerks against Gerard one last time, arching off the couch, squeezing his eyes shut. His orgasm is almost a visible thing, the way it tears through him, like it’s shuddering all the way down his body. And when he comes, he goes even redder in the face than he already was. 

Gerard had no idea that this was something he was potentially interested in before today, but that sight, the knowledge that he made Frank come just from that, cements it in his brain as something that will definitely make a reappearance if he has anything to say about it. Even now, when fifteen minutes ago he wasn’t even in the realm of being turned on, he can feel himself teetering on the edge, like it’ll just take a little push to get him coming, too. He unfurls his hand from around Frank’s neck, but doesn’t even bother slipping it inside his pants; it’d be an unnecessary waste of time at this point. Gerard just leans down closer to get a better angle, aiming for Frank’s hip again, and starts to rock against it. He’s achingly hard, knows it won’t take long, and he closes his eyes; that’s why he’s surprised when he feels Frank’s lips pressing against his, Frank’s hand on his ass, pulling him closer. 

“Come on, Gee, come on,” Frank says, against the corner of Gerard’s jaw. He sounds a little out of breath, but not too much worse for wear. And when he digs his fingers in tight, that’s what does it; Gerard comes hard enough to see stars, hard enough that he forgets he’s ruining his underwear, hard enough to forget that they’re fucking on a venue couch. 

They allow themselves a few minutes, a shared cigarette, lying on top of each other, before they decide to get up and get changed. Gerard’s thighs are all tight and strained from holding himself up, he’s gonna feel it in his ass for days, but it was so fucking worth it. “You think you’re gonna bruise?” he asks Frank as they make their way back to the bus, carrying convenient hoodies in front of them. 

“Eh.” Frank shrugs. “Maybe.” 

“What are you gonna tell people if you do?” Gerard asks, half-heartedly trying to tamp down the way that question makes a little light of dirty excitement ding on inside him. 

“The truth,” Frank answers innocently. “I got what I deserved.” His serious face lasts for a few seconds before he cracks a smirk. “And I hope I get it many, _many_ times over.” 

“Well, I can hold my own,” Gerard says. 

“Anytime,” Frank returns, and the expression on his face tells Gerard it’ll be sooner rather than later that he’ll have to prove that again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave some comments or kudos if you feel so inclined. :]


End file.
